An Inquiry Into Love and Death (23 page)

I don’t know what to tell you about ghost hunting, or why I do what I do. I remember swimming in the river with Charles when we were children, the two of us immersed in the cold water on a sweltering hot summer day. We dunked each other under the water, and when we came up I saw a girl at the edge of the trees. She was barely seven or eight, if that, and her ribs showed under her ragged shirt. There were bruises under her eyes, and she looked at me. Then Charles dunked me under the water again, and she was gone. That was the first one I saw.

I’ve seen a great many ghosts since then. It’s a sensitivity, I suppose, the way some people have a wondrous sense of smell. I don’t see them often, or I would have jumped in the Thames long ago. But at certain times, in certain places, I am aware. There is something about me that’s visible to them, and sometimes—the good times—I can find what it is they want, what they’re seeking that will lay them to rest.

None of them thanks me as they go, but it doesn’t matter. I never saw the girl on the riverbank again. She was certainly murdered, and just as certainly whoever had done the atrocities that made her look as she did that day walked away with no one the wiser.

That is why I do what I do.

But I am nearing forty now, which is not so old, but on most days I’m beginning to feel over eighty. I realized at some point some years ago, after your mother had died, after watching you start to grow into a person rather miraculous and unexpected, as I suppose children do, that I have spent more of my life with the dead than with the living. It has made me weary beyond words. And so, selfish monster that I am, I asked for you back. Charles and Nora—I don’t know why I ever thought differently—said no. And so I did great damage to my relationship with my only brother. We may not have had much in common, and he may have thought me a fool for much of his life, but he was my brother, and only after I lost him did I understand how much it truly mattered. I say this because you’ll be angry with Charles now, and I advise you not to make the same mistake I did. Life is better with Charles than without him.

I’ve gone on and on in this letter, and I haven’t told you much about your mother. I keep every memory of her close to me, folded and tucked away, jealously hoarded and unable to be shared. It seems odd to you now that I ever loved anyone and that anyone loved me. But she did love me, and it remains the only gift that has ever been given only to me, for me alone. My gift with the dead is only a duty.

What came after doesn’t matter, not really. She wouldn’t marry me, and she had to make her choices. She had to make a life for herself in Rothewell.

Rothewell was her place. It’s a haunted place—that’s what first drew me there, of course. I came across a ghost I didn’t understand, and a place that was, perhaps, impossible to understand. Elizabeth could barely even read, but she understood it.

Rothewell is by the sea, and one day we sat there, on the rocks by the water, just sitting together. It was her half day off, and she had left work for the afternoon. She wore a pale blue cotton dress with a lace collar, her “good” dress, and her dark hair was tied back in a braid. She sat on the rocks in her low-heeled boots, her work-worn hands curled in her lap as if to catch something. She lifted her head and closed her eyes, and smelled the salty breeze with such a look of perfect, serene satisfaction on her face that I was almost jealous.

I asked her then why she stayed in Rothewell, where she cleaned up after a stranger’s family, where the ghosts walked at night and scared the children. A place full of half-seen shadows and half-heard voices, creaks just around the corner, the faint thump of footsteps. Even then I knew there were too many ghosts in Rothewell, even for me.

“Because it’s beautiful,” she said simply, and then she opened her eyes and looked at me. “This place dreams,” she said. “It dreams.”

Well, there. I’ve given you one of my memories of her after all. You should have one, at least; please take care of it. The rest I will take with me when I die.

I’m sorry I can’t leave you more.

I haven’t the strength to read this letter over again, but if it sounds self-pitying, it isn’t meant to. It’s strange to think of you reading this after I’m dead. I don’t know how I died in the end, but I do already know why I was alive in the first place. I did some good in my life, and I eased some suffering, and I had you. And I find that is more than enough to justify all of it.

Respectfully,
Toby Leigh

I
folded the letter and put it back in the envelope with numb fingers.

Mr. Reed, seeing me finish, patted his pockets and produced the same clean handkerchief he’d offered me once before. I was about to refuse it when I realized that I did, in fact, need it this time. I dried my face and handed it back to him.

“Is there anything else?” I managed.

“There’s the will,” he said, folding the little square of fabric and carefully returning it to his pocket. “He’s left you everything he has, as it happens. It isn’t much. It may be for you to dispose of, as much as anything. But he did have some rather expensive ghost-hunting equipment, which is also yours.”

“What am I to do with a galvanoscope?” I asked.

“Um. That is rather a good question to which I don’t directly have the answer. He had a sum of money in the bank, no stocks or bonds, and no capital property. I don’t want to give the impression that you’re about to become an independently wealthy young woman.”

“I understand,” I said. My adoptive parents had always been perfectly able to take care of me—part of the reason, of course, why they had raised me in the first place.

“There is a photograph,” said Mr. Reed. “This was specifically placed with the will.” He held out another envelope. I opened it.

In the photograph it was a summer day, the sunlight bright on the two captured figures. They stood in a field somewhere—off behind the church, perhaps, though I couldn’t be sure. Toby stood on the left, young and slender, his hair combed fancifully back, wearing a tweed coat and vest and a cap with a peaked brim. He squinted a little into the camera, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was leaning toward his companion, his shoulder barely brushing hers, but his entire body slanted in her direction, as if she drew him like a magnet. The smile on his face was purely happy.

Elizabeth Winstone was wearing a faded dress with a Peter Pan collar and a line of pretty ruffles on the bodice, a dress she had likely hand-sewn for herself, and it fit her perfectly. She had thick dark hair, pulled back in a loose braid from which curls escaped in the warm wind. Her hands were clasped demurely in front of her waist, but the camera had captured the second her attempt at a dignified expression had given way, and her features had just loosened into the beginning of a laugh. Her shoulders were flexed up slightly as if trying to keep it in, but her big eyes were alight with joy and her beautiful mouth was breaking into a headlong smile. Toby, I think, had just said something funny, and she simply couldn’t help it.

I looked at her for a long time, trying to peer into the mystery of her. I was beginning to make peace with the fact that Toby was my father; I had known him a little, after all, and I’d always considered him blood. But this young woman, this seventeen-year-old near-illiterate maid, was a mystery, and she always would be. What had she wanted? What had been her hopes and dreams? Had she ever regretted giving up her child? Perhaps the only thing I would understand about her was her tie to this mysterious place, which seemed so alive, as if it had a will of its own.
This place dreams.

Mr. Reed was polite, but he was also human, and he was looking discreetly over my shoulder. “Miss Leigh, if I may offer some advice, I do suggest you talk to your parents as soon as you can. Find the nearest telephone and try to reach them. I think it will lay a lot of your trouble to rest if you do it.”

I laughed, and it came out sounding less bitter than I thought it would. “Which parents? I have too many. I’d like to talk to all of them. I can’t talk to these ones, but with this place, you never know.” The thought triggered something that made me stop. “Wait. Wait a minute. Toby’s journal.” I looked up at the solicitor. “He mentioned her name.”

“Did he?”

“Yes. He said . . . He said he had to admit that Walking John wasn’t the only reason he came back. And then he wrote her name.”

Mr. Reed blinked, trying to follow. “Are you saying he thought that perhaps . . . her ghost?”

He had never forgotten her; perhaps part of him had always worried about her, even in death. What if she was trapped here like the others and needed help to finally lie at rest?

But she wasn’t here. Walking John still haunted the bay, unable to sleep. But Elizabeth, with her curly braid and her illuminating smile, was truly gone. It must have cost Toby dearly even to come here.

Mr. Reed took the photograph from me and looked at it thoughtfully for a long moment. His expression grew solemn, his gaze distant as he stared at the small square of paper. He seemed to collect himself before he handed it back. “My wife died in Malta in the war,” he said. “She was nursing. She was killed by a shell. It was a week before I even knew.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, thinking of the first time I had met him, when I’d assumed he’d be going home to his wife and children. Assumptions are always so very, very foolish.

The solicitor nodded. “Nancy, her name was. She was so excited to go. Even after she’d seen war, cleaned up the bodies and lived in a tent with no water and driven ambulances through the mud—even then, her letters home glowed with purpose, an understanding of why she’d been put on this earth. I was stuck in an office in Athens at the time, of all places, trying to get supplies to our men in North Africa. I thought perhaps I’d get leave and we’d see each other. But it wasn’t to be. At least it was quick, or so I’ve been told.” He smoothed his hand along the crisp seam of his trouser leg. “I’ve often thought of going there since. Not to look for her ghost specifically, but for some trace of her. Anything at all. Just something of my Nancy. So, as strange as it is, I believe I understand why your uncle came here.”

“Thank you,” I said.

He looked at me and managed a smile. “We’ll be in touch when you get back to Oxford, then.”

“All right.”

He rose and strode back through the debris to his motorcar, and I watched him go as I held the letter in one hand and the photograph in the other.

•   •   •

I couldn’t find anything to tie around Poseidon and use as a lead, but I didn’t need one. When I started down the lane toward William’s house, calling softly to the dog, he obediently got up from his spot in the garden and trotted along at my heels. I stuffed my hands in the pockets of the coat I’d put on and trusted him to keep following.

I felt different, and yet the same. My body certainly felt different, a change I noticed as I walked. My chest and legs still hurt from the fire, and my palms were raw. There were aches from last night that were a mixture of pain and pleasure, as well. And yet whoever had tried to kill me yesterday, whoever had killed Toby, had not been stopped. I kept my wits about me, my guard up.

The threatened rain had not arrived yet, but the air was wet and close, the wind an unseasonably warm breath. I watched the treetops move, the dying leaves flashing, listened to my footsteps on the damp earth of the lane, and thought,
I was born here.
I’d always thought I was a London girl, but I’d never felt the affinity for that place—or anyplace—that I felt for this one. I wondered where Elizabeth had lived after she married the butcher. Mrs. Trowbridge would know, if I had the courage to ask her.

A motorcar was pulled up in front of William’s house, and two men were alighting from it: Drew Merriken and Teddy Easterbrook. They noticed me as I came up the lane.

“Good morning.” Inspector Easterbrook was the first to greet me. “What brings you here, Miss Leigh?”

I found I was staring at Drew, and made an effort to look away. “William’s—Mr. Moorcock’s—dog wandered into my garden this morning. He must have gotten loose. I’m returning him.”

“Can it wait? We have a few questions for him ourselves. In fact—”

“Teddy.” This was Drew. Easterbrook turned to his partner, his brows drawing down, but when he followed the direction of Drew’s unwavering gaze, he stopped.

I looked as well. The front door of William’s house was standing open, showing the tidy and empty front hallway. There was no sign of William himself.

The three of us were still for only a second, staring at the open front door. Something about it gave me an uncanny feeling. It seemed out of place, as if it had been jarred loose. The two detectives felt the same, for I saw them exchange a glance.

Drew turned to me. “Stay here. And hold on to that dog. Teddy, around to the back if you would.”

“Right.” The two men moved up the walk to the house, Easterbrook disappearing around the side of the house, Drew’s taller bulk taking the front door. I heard Drew knock on the open panel, heard him call out; then he disappeared inside.

I stood in the street, my heart beating in my throat. Poseidon gave a low moan and sat at my feet between my ankles, pressing close to me. He didn’t look at the door of his master’s house, but off down the street toward Rothewell, his gaze focused on the distance.

It seemed an age that I stood there, wondering what was wrong. Finally Drew reappeared at the front door and motioned toward me. I nudged Poseidon with my foot and came up the walk toward Drew.

“Nothing,” he said in a low voice as I approached. “And I mean nothing. There’s no one here. Do you know where he might have gone?”

I shook my head. “I thought it strange that the dog got out, but I assumed it was just a mistake.”

“Well, the back door was wide open as well, and he isn’t here.”

I followed him into the house, silently agreeing. Not a thing was out of place. Freshly watered flowers stood in a vase by the front window, and a handmade quilt lay perfectly folded across the back of the sofa. The curtains blew in the wind that came through the open doors.

I moved back toward the kitchen. The dog wouldn’t follow me, but instead stood on the front stoop, his tail lowered and moving back and forth apologetically. Eventually he sat just outside the door, and I had to leave him.

The kitchen was as neat as the rest of the house. Drew was standing at the back door, looking out at the garden. The teacups had been put away, the kettle cold and tidy on the unlit stove. The only dish to be seen was the empty pie plate from the last of Annie’s pie, scrubbed clean and dried, left in the middle of the counter.

I was staring at the pie plate, which for some reason made me even more uneasy, when Teddy Easterbrook came back into the room. “Definitely nothing,” he said, his voice breezy. “I thought for a minute we’d get a nasty shock, and I even checked the closets. If he’s done for himself, I don’t smell anything, do you?”

“For God’s sake, Teddy,” said Drew.

Teddy glanced at me. “I apologize. I can be a bit blunt. It comes with police work sometimes. It looks like all his clothes and things are in the bedroom, so he can’t have gone far. Perhaps he just went to the store.”

“And let the dog free and left both his doors open?” I said.

He glanced at me again, this time with just a little annoyance. “It’s a little odd, I’ll grant, but I hear he had a fever. Perhaps he’s ill.”

Drew looked at Teddy, a flicker of apprehension in his gaze. “Do we know where Aubrey Thorne is this morning?”

“You think he knows something about this?” said Easterbrook.

“I have no idea.”

I thought of what I’d seen the other night, of Aubrey Thorne coming out of this house, of the two men debating. Was it possible their disagreement had escalated? If what Drew had said about the smuggling in the cove was true, there could be a lot of money at stake. Would it be enough to boil over, if the two men couldn’t agree?

“It seems to me, then,” Easterbrook was saying, “that the vicarage is our next stop.”

“Agreed. I’ll follow you out directly.”

Easterbrook paused at that and looked from Drew to me. I tried to appear casual and not to flush; Drew simply shot his partner a look that would have sent any other man hurrying from the room. I felt all of our careful precautions go up in smoke at the smirk on Teddy Easterbrook’s lips.

“Right, then,” he said slowly. “I’ll just be out front.”

“That was hardly discreet,” I said to Drew once Teddy had closed the door. “What possessed you?”

But now Drew had turned his gaze on me. He was well dressed and clean shaven, but I thought I could detect tiredness in his eyes. Still, the way he looked at me made me blush with memories of the night before. “I don’t give a damn,” he said at last. “It’s too important.”

“What is?”

“We’ve had some more information. The deal we’re expecting is going to happen tomorrow night, in Blood Moon Bay.”

My mouth dried. “The deal for the mystery item you can’t tell me about.”

“Yes. I want you gone by tomorrow morning, out of here to safety. I don’t want you anywhere near here.”

He was worried—I could see it. My girlish ideas evaporated.

“All right,” I said.

“Do you mean it?”

“Yes.” In fact, I did. “I don’t have much desire to get myself in the cross fire of some ugly, illicit deal. I’ll get out of the way and let the rest of you do the work. I only wish I knew what Toby had seen, so I could help you. And now I wish I knew where William is. I hope he hasn’t been hurt.”

“Why? The last time you saw him, you were so afraid that you hid behind his garden wall.”

“That doesn’t mean I want him harmed. He’s kind, and a little lonely.” I glanced down at the pie plate again, the treat baked by his sister that he had so enjoyed.
My brother is easily upset. It’s just merciful that he doesn’t remember.
“If he’s done something foolish, then he deserves the weight of the law, but he doesn’t deserve worse than that.”

“You’ve been crying,” he said.

I laughed a little. “I’ve had something of a morning.”

“Tell me what’s going on.”

I looked at him, and all I wanted was to go toward him, to lay my cheek against him—on the woolen lapel of his coat, perhaps, feeling the warm strength beneath the scratchy fabric. I wanted to tell him all of my burdens, laying them out one by one, letting him take them from me.

It wouldn’t happen that way. Drew Merriken didn’t make those kinds of connections—not with anyone. Teddy Easterbrook was outside waiting, and there was dangerous work to do.